


Hotel Room Service

by Riachinko



Category: Family Guy
Genre: Bestiality, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Hotel Sex, Knotting, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 15:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14428872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riachinko/pseuds/Riachinko
Summary: Being woken up in the middle of the night, in a hotel room with your siblings could be worse. (Pwp)





	Hotel Room Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [namelesslunitic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/namelesslunitic/gifts).



> Thanks for the prompt boiiii~  
> This is dumb and short, please enjoy.

Stewie wakes - but just barely - to the sound of a door closing and something presumably hitting the desk beside said door, and the soft hissing of Brian cursing.

“ _Dammit_.”

The hotel room’s blackout curtains are drawn - a luxury that they don't have at home in Quahog, so when Brian stumbles over to the pull-out couch where he's been peacefully sleeping, hands out and feeling blindly for anything soft to fall down onto, Stewie is more than a little annoyed.

“Brian,” he hisses, “what in fresh hell are you doing?”

“I'm staying here tonight.” Brian's words spill hastily out of him, hushed tone matching Stewie's in annoyance but with unique layers of exhaustion and inebriation. “I just walked in on your parents having sex.”

Stewie grimaces, though it's too dark for Brian to see his reaction - Stewie appears as a charcoal silhouette against the curtains.

“Gross, man,” he spits, allowing Brian under the covers to curl up near him. “Don't tell me stuff like that.”

The pads of Brian's feet are damn cold, and brush up against Stewie's legs. Whether it's on purpose or by accident is up in the air - in which hangs the harsh scent of cheap bourbon.

“Do me a favour and stay on your own side of the bed. I was really enjoying starfishing before you came and woke me up.”

“Sorry,” the dog mumbles.

“Have you been drinking?”

It's accusatory - or at least Brian interprets it as such - but it's a fair question; times when Brian stumbles drunkenly into Stewie's room are often times when they mess around, whether Stewie wants and initiates it or otherwise. Brian swallows around a guilty lump in his throat.

“Don't worry, seeing Peter's dimpled ass sobered me right up.”

“Hmph.”

Not ten feet away, Meg murmurs in her sleep, blankets slipping to the floor as she tosses about and turns towards them. Brian sucks in a breath, listening for the end of any deep sleep breathing; but it doesn't come. She lies still and fast asleep, while in the bed at the far side of the room, Chris is lightly snoring; a rumble so constant as not to be grating.

Even Stewie's breathing is even, now. Lying on his side in new silken pyjamas they'd bought on their trip, he's a soft, open invitation to Brian.

And Brian _is_ sober. The hotel bar was about $3 more per drink than he had the budget for, and he hadn't been lying when he'd said that seeing his best friend and the woman of his dreams fucking was enough to rid him of any buzz he might have had. He can still hear the rhythmic thump of the neighbouring bed against the wall.

So he sidles up to Stewie, looking for comfort. Knowing that nothing unseemly is going to happen. The little digital clock on Meg's nightside table says 1:57.

Damn.

Stewie pushes back against Brian almost immediately once Brian's made the move.

“Stewie, are you still awake?”

It's a whisper, and almost directly in Stewie's ear. It ends a shock down the kid's spine and goosebumps along his arms.

“Yeah.”

“It's pretty late. Can you sleep with me like this?”

He's only asking because he doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't really intend to go back to Peter and Lois’ room; doesn't really want to move over and sleep on his own.

“Mm.”

They lie wordlessly together, willing sleep to overtake them, but the hard truth is that Brian can feel Stewie’s sleepless stirring; subtly wiggling his butt back further so that his back is flush with Brian's chest, ass against Brian's groin. It isn't a mystery to him - this is Stewie initiating, as forward as he can be without words.

No-- even more forward still, when he reaches back, wedging his hot little hand down between their bodies, pawing mercilessly at Brian's burgeoning erection and making every one of the dog's muscles tense.

“Do you want to do something naughty, Brian?” whispers Stewie, void of the excitement that would be there were there two fewer siblings in the room.

“Stewie-- no.”

“We wouldn’t be the only ones doing it,” he whines.

He turns around to face Brian - the whites of his eyes softly visible and glassy in the dark as Stewie leans in to give his friend a quick, clumsy kiss.

“They sleep heavier than a time machine made out of a DeLorean,” Stewie whispers snidely, the silhouette of his head nodding towards Meg and Chris, “it'll be fiiine.”

And then Brian is disappearing beneath the covers, the shuffle of fur against low thread count sheets like a symphony to Stewie's ears; the rough flat of Brian's tongue against his bare chest a raw thrill. His pyjama shirt is lifted to his chin, his pants to his knees; Brian's nose leaves a cool wet smear across Stewie's jawline as he laps at heated flesh he can't see.

Stewie reacts with hushed chortles above him.

It's irresponsible, Brian knows, to be indulging Stewie at a time like this. The kid’s got a thing for danger. He can turn his interest off and on like a switch, but Brian can't - he's too far gone the second he hears Stewie's stifled sounds, and he's licking lower and lower until Stewie's gasping out silently, holding Brian's head down through the blankets as his saliva slicks him up.

The suspect thumping from next door has ceased and now it’s the gentle echo of a nearby train that fills the room.  

Stewie clutches at his pillow, spooning it the way Brian’s spooning him; rocking into it as Brian drags his swollen cock back and forth between the valley of Stewie's ass. With nothing to see anyway, they both let their eyelids fall, focusing instead on the teasing feeling of it; focusing on being dead silent as Brian prepares to push in.

A cool paw covers Stewie's mouth and he grits his teeth in response, flinching back against Brian's chest as inch by inch he's stretched and filled. The slight creaking of the pull-out cot seems inconsequential.

It's difficult to be quiet, but Brian finds himself surprisingly aroused by the idea of it, breathing hotly against Stewie's neck, “I bet you're dying to moan.”

Stewie pinches at Brian's fur in response; grabs hold tight and snaps his hips back to drive himself further down against the dog's cock.

The squeak of the cot springs is just as deliberate.

“You're such a tease,” Brian croaks, steadying the kid’s hips with his free paw - the other still muffling Stewie’s every attempt at an outcry.

All in all, they're really getting away with it. Brian can still hear Meg's even breathing; can hear Chris’ light snore. His pace quickens, drilling into Stewie more recklessly, more familiarly - at home, when they're alone in Stewie's room, they don't give a fuck. Stewie keens and mewls and says such awful, dirty things--

He's throbbing, aching to go deeper.

Brian knows Stewie's onto him, pulling and smacking at him for mercy; managing to wrestle his mouth free to hiss through clenched teeth, “You better not--!”

But Brian's too far gone; is fucking so easily into his friend's tight heat that the knot is almost in there--

Slapping against sweat-slick skin--

“Brian,” Stewie whines, tired and helpless, “Brian don’t--”

The expanse of Brian's tongue along the shell of his ear doesn't do anything to soothe Stewie's nerves once Brian pushes completely into the hilt.

“ _Aah!!_ ”

It's almost comical, the way they freeze in tandem once Stewie has cried out. But once Meg stirs awake, Brian inhales sharply and prepares himself for the worst, fearful of even the rapid beating of his heart giving him away. There's nothing funny about this.

“...Stewie?” she says wearily, box spring crunching as she pushes herself up on one elbow. Stewie erupts in a faux cough - exaggerated maybe too much - and she continues. “You okay little guy?”

Another cough, and another, and Stewie feels feverish with the hot throbbing of Brian inside of him; his face sweaty and probably flushed to hell as he silently prays that she won't turn on the side lamp.

“Lemme get you a drink of water,” Meg rasps, her dark figure rising from the bed. The bathroom light is on shortly after - they can see Meg’s shoulder from the doorway.

The adrenaline is too much to handle.

Brian is probing at Stewie, hips stuttering, fighting to hold back his climax until Stewie snarls under his breath, “Hurry up and come.”

The turn of the tap and the flow of the water sloshing against the sink bowl is harsh and perfect cover, and it's all the motivation Brian needs to rock into Stewie just a few final times. And then he's spilling into the kid, sweat and come slopping between them - stuck like this until the swelling goes down and Brian can pull out - Stewie coughing in lieu of crying out through his own dry orgasm.

The bathroom light flicks off and Meg makes her way across the room to give Stewie a plastic cup full of water. He drinks from it greedily, letting his gulps disguise his moans of ecstasy; twitching and full.  

Meg seems almost hypnotised, wavering in place until Stewie finishes, taking back the cup and climbing back into bed like a person possessed. In a moment’s time, she's snoring softly like Chris, who thankfully never did wake up.

They catch their breaths, attached below the waist. Listening to the traffic outside; listening to snores. The cot beneath them is damp and cold - more so once Brian is able to slowly slip out, dragging a fluid trail with him.

“You better not have ruined these pyjamas,” Stewie mumbles blissfully, uncaring.

“I think I did.”

Stewie hums, turning onto his back and rearranging the blankets beneath him just enough to have a passable sleep. But again, Brian’s down there, head covered by too-tight sheets, lapping up the mess from the kid’s hindside.

But he’s too sensitive and too tired for it, and he fumbles in the dark to pull Brian back to face-level..

“Go to sleep,” Stewie orders. “I’m going to be in a terrible mood tomorrow.”

“I hope it was worth it,” Brian whispers, and it’s the last thing Stewie hears before Brian’s arm envelopes him and he drifts into unconsciousness.

  
  
  
  


The continental breakfast is fresh and bustling and a great start to the morning. The smell of bacon and eggs wafts through the air; the sun’s shining through the wall of windows. Brian fels revitalized.

It isn’t even as awkward as he supposed it might have been, when Lois approaches him at the buffet with Peter in tow, snacking on french toast and giggling like a child.

“Brian,” she coos, halfway to giggling herself, “we’re sorry about last night.”

“I-- no, Lois, it’s...it’s okay,” Brian’s tail wags in good faith.

“I hope we didn’t ruin your night.”

Behind her, at a small round table with a tacky checked burgundy tablecloth, Stewie sits in a booster seat with Meg and Chris. He’s almost cherubic, eating his Lucky Charms in the glow of the sunlight; not in nearly as foul a mood as he’d predicted last night.

“Not at all,” Brian smiles.

Stewie really is unpredictable.

And Brian likes it.

“It was one of the best night’s sleeps I’ve had in awhile.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ayo, hit me up @riachinko on Twitter


End file.
